To this, Orly says nothing. Instead his eyes wander to the dog at her side.

“That’s a nice dog, there.”

“Who, Whitey? He’s all right. Stinks up a room pretty bad, though. His butt smells like a bunch of squirrels climbed in an old jockstrap and died. Maybe it’s the frozen pizzas I’ve been feeding him.”

Orly laughs. “Whitey. That’s a good name.”

Suddenly she gets it. “Oh, see, no. I’m not being racist, you old bastard. It’s not a white pride thing, it’s a ‘he’s a dog and he happens to be all white’ thing. Dang you people got one mind about stuff, don’t you?” Her lip hooks into a sneer. “What are you doin’ here, anyway? You’re sure not here to talk to me about dogs.”

“Actually, I am. That dog in particular.”

“Go on.”

“I want him.”

“Because he’s white?”

“Because he’s a rare breed. You don’t see too many Argentine Mastiffs around.” He steps in front of his own headlights, his massive shadow darkening the house. “May I come up and talk?”

“You may—” He starts to take a step forward. “Long as you don’t mind picking birdshot out of your shiny teeth.”

He steps back. “I’ll stay down here, then.”

“Your call.” She shrugs. “Not much to talk about, anyway. This dog ain’t yours.”

“He’s not yours, either.”

“If you say so.” Time to figure out how much he knows. “So whose dog is he, then?”

Orly chuckles. “I think we both know who that dog belongs to. I’m surprised Wayman hasn’t come for him yet.”

Again the dog growls, ears bristling. Atlanta says, “If you know who owns this dog, what’s your angle? You want to return him to his rightful owner?”

“Nope. I want him for myself.”

“Figured you were friendly with Wayman.”

Again that smile drops. “Sure. Real friendly.”

“Way you just said that didn’t sound real friendly.”

“We compete, sometimes.”

“Ohhh. That why your toadies were up there the other day?”

“Just carrying the flag for the cause.”

It’s then she gets it. It clicks like the satisfying hammer of the gun in her hand. “I wonder if you don’t like Wayman’s operation because he invites the undesirables. Meaning, folks who don’t look like you or me or Whitey here.”

“I’m not here to go over that again with you.” She can tell by now Orly’s getting tired of this conversation. The smile hasn’t come back. His voice has a cheese-grater edge to it. “I’m here to make an offer on that dog, plain and simple.”

“Not interested.”

“Don’t you even want to hear the offer?”

“Like I said, not interest—”